


Rest

by JuliaJekyll



Series: Good Omens One Shots [11]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 1970s, Anxiety, Aziraphale is Not Oblivious (Good Omens), Crowley Has an Anxiety Disorder (Good Omens), Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Fear, Friendship/Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Language, Light Angst, M/M, Nervousness, Panic Attacks, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:00:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23523454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuliaJekyll/pseuds/JuliaJekyll
Summary: The night before he's supposed to give his presentation about his plans for the M25 in Hell, Crowley has a panic attack brought on by his fear of public speaking. Even though they haven't talked since the holy water incident of '67, Aziraphale comes to support him, because of course he does.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Good Omens One Shots [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1544350
Comments: 12
Kudos: 82





	Rest

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! This is one of the more personally influenced fanfictions I've written. I was diagnosed with panic disorder in 2014 after a series of debilitating panic attacks that left me unable to eat and barely able to leave the house. Nearly six years later I still have issues from time to time, but my disorder is much more under control, thankfully. Different people have different experiences of panic attacks, but for this fic I've drawn on my own experience. I hope you enjoy it and are able to connect with it! 
> 
> -Julia

London, 1970s

Crowley had read somewhere that taking deep breaths was supposed to help when you were nervous, but it wasn’t doing a damn thing for him, and he wasn’t sure whether that was because he was a demon or just because he was naturally jittery. Could have been either, really. 

There was no door between the hallway and the area of his flat where he kept his plants, but he’d miracled a temporary one into being because he couldn’t have them seeing him like this; he’d lose all credibility. He could hardly whip his plants into shape when he couldn’t even get his own act together. 

He was sitting on the floor just outside his office, back against the wall, knees drawn up to his chest, head in his hands, hyperventilating. That was another problem with taking deep breaths; it was far too easy for it to turn into hyperventilation. And the increased oxygen flow hadn’t stopped the horrible tightness in his chest, the urgent nausea in his throat, the prickly feeling that went all the way down to his stomach. He’d just finished being relieved that he’d finally managed to sit down after thirty straight minutes of pacing when a horrific shock of irrational terror sped from the crown of his head, down his neck, past his lungs and into his lower body and forced him up again, back to restless movement, cursing in whispers because he couldn’t muster the voice for more than that. 

Crowley gripped his hair with both hands as he stalked from one end of his flat to the other, curling his fingers, pulling on the ginger strands to create a sharp pain on both sides of his scalp, desperate to be distracted, if only for seconds at a time, from the fear he was feeling. He was anxious, afraid, and above all, irritated that he’d allowed his perfectly understandable nervousness about speaking in public to escalate into this uncontrollable panic. 

This could last for hours, he knew. It had before. The last time had been back in the sixties, when he’d thought just a bit too hard about how the humans had finally made it to the moon, and the implications had driven him to frantic worry. There couldn’t be all that much time left before the Apocalypse, surely, if the humans had finally figured out how to leave the planet behind, albeit in a very limited capacity? 

Crowley took yet another deep breath. Wrong move. He could feel himself starting to sweat as his breathing picked up again, and he fought the desire to open the door he’d miracled up and just run out of the flat. He doubted that running would do very much against this kind of problem, but it had to be better than standing in here and waiting to be consumed by whatever insanity was coming for him. 

He didn’t know what, precisely, he was afraid of; this had gone way beyond his anxiety about the presentation about the M25 that he was supposed to be giving in Hell tomorrow morning, but if this kept going for much longer he could kiss the notion of getting any sleep tonight goodbye, and that was a problem. How could he be expected to do his best work, after all, if he was exhausted? These kinds of panic attacks always wore him out. He remembered that, after the last major one he’d had, he had slept for near on thirty hours straight.   
When the storm inside him stilled for a brief moment, giving him a much-needed break from the strangling terror, he looked into his office, his eyes falling on the phone. What he wanted, more than anything right now, was someone to talk to. Someone who could help him through this. He would get through it on his own eventually, that he knew from previous experience, but perhaps it would be less harrowing if he had a companion. 

Crowley walked into the office. There were no lights on, but he could see in the dark just fine. He clasped his hands together, rubbing at skin that was raw from being wrung and scratched at while he was trying to create a feeling that could take him away from all the other terrible sensations that were going on in his body. He took one more breath, in through his nose. He supposed he wouldn’t be quite so willing to do this if he hadn’t had that glass of wine earlier, in a futile attempt to calm himself down, but here he was, one hand hovering over the phone while the other danced fearfully up and down his arm, brushing over scratch marks put there by his own desperate fingernails. 

_Fuck it._ Before he could change his mind, Crowley picked up the phone and dialed. It was hard to stay standing in one place while it rang, so he miracled the cord away so that he could walk around the room while he waited. His panic almost spiked again when he remembered that the last time he’d seen Aziraphale, the angel had told him that he went too fast and left him in Soho alone...but he managed to keep it down by gritting his teeth hard enough that at least one of them would have shattered if he’d been human. 

Aziraphale picked up on the third ring. “Hello, terribly sorry, but we’re closed.” 

“Aziraphale, it’s me.” His voice came out embarrassingly ragged and hoarse. Crowley realised that he was shaking. 

“Crowley?” Aziraphale sounded surprised. “Is that you?” 

“Mmhmm.” Crowley nearly dropped the phone as he hustled out of the office again, feeling a sudden need to be in a more open space. “Look, I’m sorry, ok? I’m sorry for everything.” 

“Dear, what are you talking about?” 

“I don’t know, angel, I don’t know. I just know that I’m sorry.” He felt a sob rising in his throat and forced it down. He was so scared. 

“Crowley, are you alright?” 

“No. I’m really not.” He forced a laugh. “Angel, did you know that I get panic attacks? Isn’t that absurd?”   
“You get panic attacks?” Aziraphale paused. “No, I didn’t know, but it’s quite alright, dear. I don’t think any less of you for that. Are you, ah...are you having one now?” 

“Yes. Going on three hours.” Crowley laughed again, from a combination of relief that Aziraphale was talking to him and sheer inability to articulate himself properly. “It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?” He was breathless. “An immortal being and all...shouldn’t really be having them, should I?” 

“What brought it on?” There was a rustling on the line. 

“Oh, worrying about my stupid presentation.” Already the tightness in his chest had loosened a little, just from having something else to focus on. He was still running a hand through his hair, still trembling, but at least it was progress. 

“Crowley, do you want me to come over?” 

A rush of relief went through Crowley. It wasn’t quite enough to banish the panic, but it let him stay still for a blessed minute. “Please,” he said. 

“I’ll be there as soon as I can. Stay where you are, dear. See you soon.” 

“Yes,” Crowley said, his fingers tight around the receiver, and then the line went dead. 

The brief distraction had calmed Crowley slightly, enough that he was able to collapse into his office throne and enjoy the sensation of sitting down for a few minutes. He leaned forward and dropped his head into his hands, between his knees, focusing on the base of the ornate chair. His breath was still coming too fast, but his stomach no longer felt like it was vibrating, and the pins-and-needles feeling in his face and neck had gone down as well. He ran his hands through his hair, not pulling this time, but focusing on the sensation of his skin brushing his scalp. 

He stayed like that until panic compelled him to stand up again, then he paced for a few minutes before the doorbell rang. 

“Alright, Anthony,” Crowley murmured to himself. “Just for one minute, get it together. The plants...don’t wanna give them the wrong idea.” He snapped his fingers, and the door he’d created receded so that he could get to the door of the flat and open it. Aziraphale was standing there, wearing a jacket that was dripping onto the floor, looking at Crowley with concern in his blue eyes. 

“Hello, Crowley,” he said. “How are you feeling?” 

“Is...is it raining?” Crowley asked, watching Aziraphale’s coat drip.

“Oh, yes. I walked here.” Aziraphale smiled. “May I come in?”   
“Yeah. Of course.” Crowley beckoned him in and closed the door behind him. “Um, in my office, if you don’t mind,” he said, rushing to put the door back in place so that the plants wouldn’t know what was going on. He led Aziraphale to his office, walking too fast, and flipped the lights on. 

“What can I do?” Aziraphale asked, taking his coat off and draping it over Crowley’s chair. “I can’t say I’ve ever had a panic attack before, so I’m not certain what to do.” 

Crowley exhaled. “Honestly, it’s enough that you came.” He wrung his hands. “Sorry, I just...can’t seem to stop moving.” He paced through his office. “Sit down; no sense in both of us wandering around,” he said, trying to keep his voice light. 

Aziraphale sank onto the throne. “Would you like to talk?” 

“I’d like _you_ to talk,” Crowley said. He waved a hand vaguely at his throat. “It’s a little hard for me, at the moment.” 

“Right.” Aziraphale cleared his throat. “Well, I could tell you about the customers I had yesterday?” 

“Yes. Please.” 

“Certainly.” Aziraphale took a deep breath and launched into a story. 

* * *

  
Aziraphale checked Crowley’s alarm clock for the fifth time. He wouldn’t have figured Hell for the type of place that expected its employees (for lack of a better word) to show up early, but Crowley had told him that his presentation would be at 11:00 sharp, and so Aziraphale had set the alarm for 10 to make sure Crowley got as much sleep as possible. It had taken two hours for Aziraphale to talk him down and for his panic to recede, and when the attack had finally ended, the demon had collapsed. Aziraphale couldn’t blame him; all that pacing and worry must have been exhausting. 

Aziraphale’s hand was resting on Crowley’s shoulder as he slept, and he was trying to transfer as much angelic warmth to him as he could without burning him. He hadn’t seen Crowley for several years, ever since he’d given him the holy water, and he’d been terribly relieved to finally get a call from him. He just wished it had been under better circumstances. 

Still, if this was what Crowley needed him for; if this was the role Crowley needed him to play, Aziraphale was happy to do it. It was good to be back in Crowley’s life, no matter the situation. 

Carefully, Aziraphale brushed one finger over a loose strand of Crowley’s hair. His heart ached as he looked down at the sleeping demon. He knew Crowley loved him; of course he did. He also knew that he loved him back. This was neither the time nor the place to say so, though, and so he simply leaned down and brushed his lips, very lightly, over Crowley’s temple, infusing calm into his mind as he did so. Then he stood up, careful not to wake Crowley, and made his way toward the door of the bedroom. 

Before leaving, Aziraphale scribbled a hasty note - _Feel better. Good luck with your presentation. Call again soon, panic or no panic_ \- and left it on the nightstand. He went to Crowley’s office to retrieve his still-damp coat before he left the flat, feeling warm with love and energised with a new determination. He was not going to let them drift apart again. If Crowley had the strength to endure hours of paralysing panic on his own, surely Aziraphale had the strength to maintain their friendship despite his fears. 

Or, if he didn't, then he'd find it for Crowley's sake. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Please comment and/or leave kudos! 
> 
> If you have panic attacks or love someone who has them, I hope this helped you in some small way <3


End file.
